Seamus’s gaze swept her lithe body, noting the smattering of bruises on her arms and legs, the colors ranging from brilliant purple to an ugly sulphureous yellow. He almost smiled. If recruits were chosen for enthusiasm, Aislyn would top the list. Unfortunately, passion wouldn’t help her through. She needed all round skills including physical strength. Aislyn had a battle in front of her. Even making it through hell week wouldn’t guarantee her a place with the recruits.
"What about physical fitness? The fitness and stamina tests are the ones you’ll have problems with because of your size."
Aislyn’s chin shot up. "I can do it."
"How, if you don’t train?"
She tossed her head, her copper curls bouncing about, highlighting both frustration and irritation. "But I hate running and going to the gym. It’s boring."
Seamus considered her carefully. Could that be the key? If he pushed hard enough would she give up on her ambition to join the recruits? For Aislyn’s sake, he had to spell everything out clearly, make her understand. Perhaps if he told her about the everyday frustrations members of the fairy force faced, she might change her mind? Those rose-tinted glasses she wore were blinding her to reality. Even if part of him cheered her on, he had to make her understand how dangerous it was for her to leave the safety of the colony. Imagining her reaction raised a grimace. In Aislyn, he saw the bright-eyed ambition, the idealism, and love of life he used to have but had lost by the way, eroded by dealing in the murky underworld of criminals, board politics, and the paparazzi. "I hate to break it to you, but most fairy force work is tedious. It’s not like the action movies, or the television programs on the fairy network."
"I know that," Aislyn countered. "I can do it! I know I can."
Too exhausted to argue, he gave way. "All right." Seamus strode toward the far end of the stadium. "We’ll start at the gym," he said, nodding at the group of young males they passed. The fairies greeted him but ignored Aislyn, and Seamus bit back a grin as Aislyn’s pert nose shot upward in a full out snub. A flurry of masculine mutters followed them into the gym. Humor burst to the surface again, his mouth twisting in a wry grin. Aislyn O’Sullivan might be petite, but she left a trail of chaos wherever she went. She couldn’t help herself. "A full weights program supplemented by aerobics and cardio work," he instructed. "You can work with a personal trainer when I can’t be here."
Aislyn halted abruptly. "I can’t afford a personal trainer," she muttered. "I can barely afford the shooting range fees." She stared at her feet. "I haven’t found another job yet."
Seamus frowned. "Surely your parents--?" He watched in fascination as heat built in her cheeks.
"No. No, they can’t help me."
Won’t help her, Seamus surmised, unsurprised. It was a wonder Patrick O’Sullivan hadn’t contacted him already, spouting outrage at Seamus’s involvement with his daughter. "What about your brother, Duncan?"
"I can’t ask Duncan and Julie. Every penny they can spare goes into their new business." Aislyn caught his sympathetic glance and glared at him. "I don’t need a personal trainer. Show me what to do and I’ll do it."
"All right. After you." Seamus gestured in the direction of the weight machines and followed closely behind. A mistake, he realized, as his gaze zapped to her tanned legs then traveled higher, past the her tight black shorts, to study the feminine sway of hips. He watched for long seconds, mesmerized by the way Duncan’s sibling had matured into such a stunning fairy. He wondered if she had a special male friend then jerked his wayward thoughts to an appalled halt. He tried to conjure the image of the top contender on his first lady list but failed. All he could picture was Aislyn in another fairy’s arms. And the idea made him want to hit something. Someone.
"Which machine first?" she asked.
Ignoring the soft slide of pleasure brought on by her husky voice, Seamus chose the closest machine and demonstrated how to use it, determined to concentrate on the task at hand. The sooner he started, the quicker he could leave and remove himself from Aislyn’s vicinity and the ever-present temptation. He loaded weights on the machine then lay down, showing Aislyn how to position her body.
"You lift like this," he said, leveling his gaze at a cobweb on the ceiling where it was safe. "Make sure you don’t jerk. Each movement needs to be smooth. Keep your breathing even. Remember to warm up first or you risk injury. I’m going in cold today since I’m demonstrating how to use the machines and we don’t have much time."
"That looks easy enough."
Aislyn’s low, husky voice made him shudder inwardly. Sexy. And way too seductive for his tired mind to cope with. He hoisted the weights. Another soft sound grabbed his attention. He glanced over and nearly dropped the bar. The look on her face was distinctly admiring and a bit hungry? He blinked, looked away, then snuck another fleeting glance. Aislyn peered innocently back.
"Can I have a turn?"
Seamus shook himself. Too many late nights working on the case. He must rein in his imagination. And sort out his betrothal to preserve his sanity.
"Sure." The weights rattled when he set them down. He sat up, making way for Aislyn on the narrow bench. As he gazed at her, Seamus was aware of how petite she was, how feminine. If he wanted, he could crush her with his two bare hands. The idea of her facing a criminal sent shivers down his spine.
"Are you sure you want to do this?" he asked, keeping his voice low so the males using the neighboring machines were unable to hear.
"Lift weights?" Aislyn chuckled. "Well, no. It looks boring, but I’m going to do it along with all the other fitness work required." Her chin jutted upward in the characteristic gesture he was coming to recognize. "I am going to join the fairy force."
Despite what everyone else thought, Seamus acknowledged with a touch of admiration underlining the reflection. She didn’t seem to care that she was out of step with every fairy that inhabited the colony.
Aislyn O’Sullivan marched to her own drummer.
* * * *
Another day. More training. Harder. Faster.
Be careful what you wish for, Aislyn thought as she gasped desperately for what felt like her dying breath. She’d wanted Seamus to train her because he was the best, but each session seemed more grueling than the previous. Sweat dripped down her forehead, stinging her eyes, making her skin itch. She swiped at her face with her shirt, flashing her stomach to all and sundry and not giving a damn.
Seamus glanced over his shoulder and scowled. "Pick up your feet. Damn it, Aislyn. Move your butt!"
He, of course, moved freely and looked as fresh as this morning’s brown bread. She felt like the dough. Aislyn shot a look of acute dislike at the back of his neck. She had feelings for this male? This tyrant. This bully. Huh!
She needed her head examined.
"Two more laps, thirty push ups then after a warm down we’ll move on to weapon training. I want you to prove you’re as good as you say."
Aislyn’s breath wheezed in and out while her feet pounded the track. Fitness. Weapons. Theory. And the hundred and one other things Seamus considered necessary for her training. Some came naturally; others were torture like this fitness kick. Sheer-gritted determination and pride made her keep running even though her body screamed at her to stop. Right. Now!
Up ahead, Seamus halted then dropped to the ground, the muscles in his shoulders and back bulging with each smooth movement. Sweat shone on his bare skin. The sun beat down from overhead, and Aislyn wondered about stripping her shirt off. She scanned the busy arena but couldn’t summon the energy to smile at her thoughts. A topless recruit. Now that would cause a sensation.
With everyone except Seamus.
With lungs puffing like bellows, Aislyn dropped to the ground and commenced push ups, groaning with the exertion and effort it took to coordinate tired, straining muscles.
Seamus had agreed to train her, but she’d seen him a total of three times since he’d first agreed to help her. He was moody, short-tempered and his abrasive
orders tore her natural confidence to shreds. Only this morning, she had joked of sexual frustration--his. A mistake because Seamus had decided on fitness training soon after. Aislyn wasn’t sure she wanted to carry on with the way things were between them.
"All done?" His mocking voice sounded from above.
"Yoo-hoo! Seamus!"
Aislyn faltered slightly at the interruption before picking up the rhythm again. The voice was all too familiar. Christel. That fairy would have to show up now. Christel--voted Miss Fairy Princess just last year. Christel--the beautiful fairy with long blonde hair and luscious figure. The fairy with all the males panting after her. Aislyn muttered a rude word under her breath, cursing fate. It was obvious Christel wanted Seamus, and it pricked Aislyn’s ego to see that he wasn’t exactly running in the opposite direction.
Aislyn collapsed to the ground after her last push up and crawled to her feet at a pace slower than a geriatric fairy with gout. One glance at Christel and she bit back a groan. Talk about contrasts. Aislyn suspected she didn’t smell too pretty either. No wonder Seamus preferred the blonde Christel. Miss Fairy Princess wrinkled her perfect nose when she glanced her direction confirming Aislyn’s worst fears.
Christel leaned towards Seamus, and lowered her voice. "I’ll see you at the Witches and Goblin’s ball. Save a dance or two, hmmm?" She moved closer until her full breasts flirted with his chest then brushed a lingering kiss across his mouth.
Aislyn clenched her fists and noted acidly that Seamus didn’t offer a protest. For the brief second it took to control her surge of temper, Aislyn considered using a sneaky spell, but changed her mind on seeing the knowing grin that curved Seamus’s lips. She caught Christel’s smirk and tempered her glare, but Aislyn guessed she still looked as though she’d tasted a sour apple. No spells. If the impossible happened, and Seamus looked at her with romance in mind, she wanted, no needed to know she had won on her own merits.
* * * *
John Watson was eating lunch at his country estate in England when the invitation arrived.
The sudden noise, loud and sharp as a thunderclap, made him start. His head jerked up, and his aristocratic nose twitched much like a fox sensing danger.
"Sorry, sir." The flustered maid righted the dinner trolley she had tripped on and smoothed down her black skirt, her gaze darting around the cobbled patio.
John Watson set his knife and fork across the middle of his plate then his cool blue gaze flicked over the hovering maid. "What do you want?"
The maid flinched but held her ground. She remained silent, refusing to meet his gaze, merely inching closer and extending her hand--the one holding a pale blue envelope.
He made the maid stand, her hand outstretched as he wiped his mouth fastidiously on a cream Irish linen napkin. He picked up a crystal glass containing chilled vintage chardonnay and took a slow sip of the wine, all the while watching her through narrowed assessing eyes.
"I haven’t seen you before. Are you new?" His words crackled through the air with shotgun quickness while he studied the attractive brunette and the way the sun caught the streaks of red in her hair.
She swallowed before saying in a quiet yet firm voice, "Yes, sir. I started yesterday."
He took a perverse pleasure in making her wait, keeping her there until her hand began to tremble. Whether from nervousness or fatigue, John wasn’t sure, but he allowed himself a sliver of satisfaction.
His point was made.
Extending his hand, he accepted the pale blue envelope from her. "Next time bring it on the silver tray."
She sketched a brief curtsy. "Yes, sir."
The maid turned to leave. John checked her departure with an upheld hand, then he turned his attention to the envelope, studying the postmark.
It told him little.
A frisson of unease filtered through him. He did not like surprises, and this innocuous blue envelope presented one.
He picked up his steak knife and slit the envelope open with one decisive cut. Long pale fingers extracted the fancy embossed card from inside. With a faint frown, he read through the invitation. His frown metamorphosed to a delighted chuckle.
"A game!" He leaned back in his chair, a grin playing about his firm lips. "Oh, Maximillan, I accept, with pleasure."
The maid frowned. "Sir?"
"Send me Morgan," he demanded.
"Yes, sir."
He watched the feminine sway of her hips beneath the short black uniform skirt when she moved towards the house. Her high heels clicked on the tiles as she departed. Cocking his head to one side, he thought about Natasha. She was becoming boring and was exhibiting an annoying tendency to cling. Natasha was also common, but this one ... this one would bear watching. She had an innate style he found pleasing, and she knew her place. John frowned and then nodded decisively. Something would need to be done about Natasha.
Soon. And meanwhile, a replacement waiting in the wings wouldn’t hurt.
"You wanted me, sir?"
"Ah, Morgan. We have a small challenge to amuse us." He handed his brawny personal assistant the engraved invitation and waited while the man pulled out a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles.
Morgan’s blond brows rose as he read through it. "A worthy challenge indeed. The stakes are high enough, sir."
John allowed a gloating smile to distort his lips. "And look at the field. Small enough to be viable yet large enough to allow healthy competition."
"You want me to accept on your behalf? Even though the invitation comes from Maximillan?"
"Yes, Morgan." He chuckled. "I rather think I do. My darling step-brother won’t present any problems I can’t handle."
"Very good, sir. I’ll see to it straight away. Will there be anything else?"
"Has the latest shipment arrived?"
"About an hour ago, sir."
John rubbed his hands together, almost gleefully. "And how is the Little Spotted Kiwi settling into its new home?"
Morgan smiled. "The vet checked him over then released him into the nocturnal house. All seems well."
"Good. Good. Maybe now we will have success with our breeding plan." He pushed to his feet, dropping his napkin on top of the Royal Dalton plate. "Tell Sam to expect me later this afternoon. I want to check on the tiger cubs, but I am particularly looking forward to seeing our new arrival."
Morgan nodded then turned to walk back across the spacious tiled courtyard to his office. John watched his employee leave. A smile hovered on his lips as he wandered slowly in the direction of his rose gardens.
Lately life had become almost humdrum, he mused as he sauntered between the rows of perfumed blooms. Maximillan’s invitation would make all the difference; it would bring a challenge to his jaded life. Enough risk to add spice, but with his money and buying power he would avoid any awkward entanglements with the law.
Money could buy anything.
He pursed his lips as he came to a halt in front of a Claude Monet, a mottled pink and cream rose, and his current favorite. The trick would be to manage his resources more efficiently than the other competitors.
He glanced down at his scarred hands and then reached up to finger the faint scar running the length of his face from his right eyebrow to his jaw.
It was an opportunity for revenge.
CHAPTER THREE
Tonight was the night.
In exactly three hours and--Aislyn checked her watch--seven minutes, the names of the successful recruits were due to be announced, the thirty candidates whittled down to ten.
"Where are you going, miss? I thought you were staying the night here with us." Her father’s stern voice jerked her to a halt. Aislyn’s hand slid from the brass handle of the front door. Drawing deeply for calm, she plastered an impassive expression on her face and turned away from the door to face him. Her mother stood behind Patrick O’Sullivan, a worried look on her face as her gaze darted from her husband to her daughter. Her pale hands flashed in front of her, clasping and unclasping before finally
settling out of sight beneath her frilly white apron.
"I’m going to the ball."
"You’re making this clan a laughing stock, persisting with your unfeminine ways. Fairies laugh at me when I go to the pub, talking behind my back. It’s got to the stage that I’m ashamed to admit you’re my daughter."
"Patrick," her mother said, her low voice quivering with stress.
Patrick spun to glare at his wife. "Stay out of this, Bridget. It’s your fault for encouraging her when she was younger. When she should have been practicing the feminine arts, you let her go out with her brothers. You let her dress like a male--you and that scandalous sister of yours. I’ve had enough. Aislyn, you will marry Fergus McKenzie. About time you raised a family so the colony grows. Do as you’re told for once."
Aislyn fought to restrain the angry, frustrated words trembling on the tip of her tongue. Fergus McKenzie was a slobbering idiot. The thought of being a brood-mare disgusted her. She remembered the pride in her father’s eyes when she was naught but a toddling fairling and recalled the hugs and kisses. When had it changed? She’d tried to go along with her father’s wishes, but the thought of having to live the same empty life that her mother led made her bleed inside. She wanted more. She needed more than sewing and fairlings to fill her life, and she just didn’t understand why wanting something different was so wrong.
Her father turned his wrath back on her, his strong, big-barreled body quivering with rage. "I forbid you to go to the ball."
Shock roared through Aislyn. "You can’t do that."
Patrick O’Sullivan folded his beefy arms across his chest. "I can, and I have. Go to your room. I will begin formal betrothal negotiations tomorrow."
"But Patrick--"
"Enough!" he roared, slashing one hand through the air to emphasize his point.
Aislyn bit down on her tongue and stalked past her parents heading for her attic bedroom. She stomped up the wooden stairs, the hollow ring of the steps making her fume even more. It wasn’t fair. She was going to the ball. There was no fairy godmother in this story, but somehow, some way she was going. And she refused to marry Fergus. Aislyn slammed her bedroom door. Muttering under her breath, she paced around her bed and the untidy dresser. Stepping over a pile of dirty clothes, she crossed to the window and peered out. A large oak grew a few feet from the house, its sturdy branches sparking an idea. Unfortunately, she wouldn’t be able to use magic because her father would sense it--he seemed to have a supernatural knowledge when it came to his children and magic. Aislyn stalked to the bed and dropped down on the denim blue quilt cover. Her eyes sought the alarm clock and urged it to speed. Half an hour later, the house seemed quiet apart from the muted voices on the television in the lounge. Aislyn slid the window open and crawled out onto the roof. The nearest branch on the tree seemed miles away, but there was no alternative. After wiping her moist hands down the front of her costume, she took a deep breath and leapt....
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